


Lux

by witchsoup



Series: Catching Flies [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Background Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Football, Hinny endgame, did someone say She's the Man au?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: Seven missed calls: two from Harry - her new landlord - and five from Hermione, as well as one text from the former which reads,"fucker i can't hold a spot for you if you don't even come to try out,"accompanied by the moon emoji.





	Lux

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine someone who has never seen the film She's the Man tried to write a Hinny fic inspired by it. I'm talking very _very_ loosely based. You've got to have a little bit of background Dramione. Just a smidge.

Pressing a perfunctory kiss to her lips, Cormac rolls out of the cradle of her knees and says, "I think we should break up."

Ginny stiffens, dragging the duvet up to cover herself.

"Why do you say that?"

Her voice is cold.

"I cheated on you," says Cormac, holding his hands up in supplication when she sits bolt upright. "But it was only two girls-"

"Mother _fucker_ , you cheated, _twice,_ and you're only telling me now?"

She makes a disgusted sound, throwing off the covers and grabbing her bra from the floor.

"It wasn't twice, technically, it was at the same time-"

He grabs a pillow, shielding his face when she grabs one of his precious signed balls from the shelf and launches it at him.

"This was ages ago, I thought we could just move on from it, but I'm not happy anymore, Gin-"

Shoving on her trousers, she jumps up and down a few times and finally zips her skinny jeans. Her t-shirt is nowhere to be seen, so she grabs her hoodie from the desk chair and rounds on him.

"Welcome to the fucking club, Cormac. Good luck finding someone else to put up with your crap. I'm sure it'll be easy, who could fail to love a bloke with a fat head who's allergic to _giving_ head?"

Storming from the room, she leaves his door wide open. She takes the stairs two at a time, thudding as she goes, and smiles brightly at his mother as she passes the kitchen.

"Bye, Mrs McLaggen! If I were you, I'd have a look in your son's sock drawer, just a thought."

* * *

Ginny hates her job.

She hates the kids: snot nosed and uncoordinated, cruel and high pitched and sticky.

She hates her boss: a thirty-five-year-old bodybuilder who couldn't get a job at the boxing gym down the road, so settled for the swimming-pool cum summer kids club hellscape that is the council leisure centre.

She hates the uniform: a vastly unflattering lime green polo shirt paired with black nylon shorts, so oversized and shapeless that even tying it off at the bottom does little more than emphasise its awfulness.

Most of all, though, she hates the fact that it's Cormac's local gym.

Scowling, she continues to shove one football after another into the massive netted bag destined for the back of the sports cupboard, eyes trained on the yoga instructor he's currently chatting up.

Ginny's morning consisted of five-a-side football in the rain, and escorting a seven-year-old to the showers after an unfortunate little _accident._ Melanie teaches a seven am hot yoga class upstairs. She knows, because Cormac swipes into the building at six fifty sharp every morning.

The next ball, she throws in with more force than necessary: it misses its mark, rolling to a stop at Cormac's feet.

He has the audacity to smile.

She's Ginny-fucking-Weasley. She was the star player on the netball team, and captain of the girls' football team, and the sole reason the school made a profit in last year's production of Oliver.

"Ginny, come meet Melanie! She's helping me with my calf injury," he calls.

Melanie has the sense to look politely interested when Cormac introduces her.

"Ginny just graduated from my old school. Two years below," he adds, and Ginny rolls her eyes. Not even the age advantage he's got on her can convince her that it's not creepy to fuck a thirty-year-old. No matter what she looks like.

"She's a footballer."

The yoga instructor grins.

"That's so great! I have a niece who's really into football, she's got a Chelsea season ticket and everything. She's better than half the boys in her class-"

"Better warn her not to get too good, who's going to want to admit his girlfriend's a bigger football fan than he is?"

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it," says Ginny, smiling innocently.

"Yeah, well, rugby's-"

"-for wankers. There's coaching sessions on Tuesday nights at the primary school pitches," she says to Melanie, reaching over to the front desk to grab a flyer. "I take nine to eleven-year-olds, but we do sessions right the way up to sixteen. Tell your niece to ask for Ginny Weasley. Nice meeting you."

She slams a palm down on the football in Cormac's hands, and catches it on its bounce back up with a smile.

* * *

Rubbing the raindrops off her phone screen, Ginny checks the address again and peers up at the house number. How the fuck Ron managed to make a friend whose parents can afford this kind of place, she has no idea.

All she knows is he's a very good friend. The rent is manageable, even on her shoestring budget.

Her brother's spare key is burning a hole in her pocket, hastily clipped to her enormous key ring before she ran for the train this morning. It's a miracle she didn't leave her suitcase in the taxi.

The case thuds onto the varnished wood floor of the hallway, rolling away from her and tipping over with an even louder bang.

She winces, unwilling to look inside to see how much damage has been done to her elderly laptop. This trip is essentials only. George has promised he won't let their mother confiscate any of her skimpier clothes when they drive down on Saturday with the rest of her stuff.

The house is silent. Ginny gives herself the grand tour.

On the second floor, she hears the faint snuffling sound that usually accompanies a sleeping Ronald Weasley coming from a wide open door. She slams her palm on the door frame a few times in lieu of a knock, then walks straight in. Predictably, her brother sleeps on.

His room is a pigsty, no surprise there, and Ron's snores almost muffle the sound of a frantically vibrating phone, poised to fall from the bedside table into a pile of old boxers.

Grabbing it, Ginny smiles at the photo of Ron and his girlfriend - Hermione, they're friends on facebook even though they've never met in person, and Mum's been pestering Ron to bring her home to meet the family - set as his background.

Seven missed calls: two from Harry - her new landlord - and five from Hermione, as well as one text from the former which reads, _"fucker i can't hold a spot for you if you don't even come to try out,"_ accompanied by the moon emoji.

She quickly pulls out her own phone, scanning the Fresher’s Week itinerary they emailed to her a fortnight ago. Women’s football team tryouts, Monday, ten am. It’s already quarter past. Men’s football team tryouts, Monday, twelve pm.

When Ron’s phone begins to vibrate once more she swipes her thumb to decline the call, smiling absently, and then switches it off entirely.

“Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Her hair is scraped into a ponytail at the top of her head, a blaze of fire down her back that swings as she stretches.

She’s the only girl there, waiting in the car park behind the gym for the guy in the glasses to tick her name off a list, so she can bundle into the minibus with the rest of the hopefuls. The guy - tall, bordering on skinny, with rich brown skin and a mess of dark hair - frowns over the top of his glasses - thick, bordering on oversized - at her, and says, “Women’s tryouts were this morning, but I can put in a call to Angelina if you want. She’s the captain, I think they’re still out there-”

“I’m here to try out for the men’s team,” interrupts Ginny.

“Name?”

“Ronald Weasley.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re not Ron Weasley.”

She lifts her chin, folding her arms.

“Says who?”

“His, uh, flatmate? I don’t blame him for missing this, I mean I would too if I was sleeping off eight Jager bombs-”

“You’re Harry Potter?” Ginny asks.

“Alright, no need to look like that.” She schools her expression, closing her mouth. “You must be Ginny, then.”

“If my brother’s told you anything about me, you already know you’re really going to want me to try out.”

Harry unfolds his rain jacket, stamped with the football team’s initials, checking the time on a battered-looking gold watch. Paired with the glasses and the hair, Ginny thinks he’d look more comfortable serving coffees in a hipster cafe than on a muddy pitch. Especially when it looks like rain.

Clicking his pen, Harry gestures for her to turn around and flattens his list out on her shoulder blades. She can feel the heat of his hand through her under armour. When he’s finished, he shows her the paper, where Ron’s name is crossed out, replaced by hers in messy block capitals.

“Get on the bus, and put your seatbelt on. I’m driving.”

Despite herself, she laughs, and when she holds his gaze, he grins too. At the sound of his name, he turns to see Ron jogging down the disabled ramp, face flushed.

“Oi, Harry, my phone was off when I woke up, must have died last night. Alarm didn’t even go off,” he grumbles. When he notices Ginny, Ron does a double take.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Replacing you. Better luck next year.”

When Ron opens his mouth to argue, she sticks up her middle finger. He turns to Harry, who shrugs.

“Curry for dinner tonight, ok? My shout.”

* * *

Wednesday is sports night.

They’re all expected to show up at the same shitty club every week, and listen to the same shitty music, and she’s somehow supposed to not go home with one of a rotating cast of idiots from one week to the next, despite the fact that Ron’s currently sitting in a booth with his hand up Daphne Greengrass’ skirt.

She’s a cheerleader, which firstly, like what? Who do these girls think they are? Secondly, she’s a cheerleader. Ron doesn’t even play a sport, unless you count FIFA. Girls like Daphne are supposed to know when they’re a rebound. They’re supposed to have standards.

Across the bar, she spies Draco Malfoy staring forlornly at his phone, a vodka Red Bull in his left hand. He’s the vice president of the rowing club, and he’s a pretentious private school arsehole. He’s also been summarily rejected by Ron’s ex at every major student union event in the past two months. Hermione is the treasurer. Ginny’s glad to see she’s got some sense.

This evening’s outfit is comprised of a leather top (more of a bralette, if you want to be pedantic about it) covered in tiny squat studs and paired with black jeans. Not forgetting, of course, the tie.

These _fucking_ ties, the ones that will get you doxed if you’re not seen in them on a Wednesday night, even Ginny, for whom it is simply another inconvenient excuse for guys to stare at her tits – these ties are fucking _stupid._

But not on Harry Potter.

Harry Potter in a shirt and tie looks like something that’s stumbled out of an Evelyn Waugh novel, a stiff upper lip latched onto the side of your neck, a drunken night washed clean in time for Sunday brunch. He swears he doesn’t come from money, not really. Not in the way his godfather did. The one whose house they now share.

It’s been a hardship.

When she sees him weaving his way through the crowd with a bottle of Red Stripe in his hand, she paints on a mocking smile, intending to ask him if he plans to pull when he won’t even spring for a real drink. His smile when he sees her, though, does something to her face. Her smile, around him, is genuine. Almost as bright as her hair.

“I’ve been getting grief all night about last week’s match,” he says.

Ginny groans, covering her face with her hands. He pulls them away, holding on to her hand for a split second longer than she thinks is fair.

“You weren’t that bad,” Harry offers.

“I was excellent. I was on top form. Diggory tackled me for no fucking reason, I don’t care what the ref said-“

“You’re lucky you weren’t sent off.”

“He’s the one who should have been sent off,” she mutters.

Harry fidgets with his hair and takes a long swallow of beer.

“I was thinking that we should get out of the house at some point this week. I need some help organising the new training schedule... if you’d be interested.”

Wrapping her lips around her straw, she takes a sip and waits.

“It’s not fair on Ron for us to constantly be talking about the team in front of him. He was really looking forward to being on it this year. And, uh, there’s this Thai place near the train station that everyone’s been raving about. It has, like, a five-star rating on Trip Advisor-“

He cuts off, looking concerned.

“I mean it’s totally fine if you’re busy, or you don’t want to, I’m just your captain…”

Finished with her drink, Ginny drops her glass on a nearby table and takes a swallow of his beer, without any protest from Harry.

“Yeah. I think we’d make a good team.”

* * *

_Ultimate power couple, Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter, left, take the university football team through to the final round after a rocky start to the season. Prepare yourself for the sight of hundreds of latecomers to the world of university football, draped in school scarves and claiming they always knew they had it in them._

_Photos by Parvati Patil._

**Author's Note:**

> Like, I will probably end up writing an accompanying Dramione one shot. Don't quote me, but it's sorely tempting.


End file.
